


Memento Mori

by Melospiza_melodia



Series: The xBs [2]
Category: Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Body Horror, Canon compliance is a bitch sometimes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melospiza_melodia/pseuds/Melospiza_melodia
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR PICARD EPISODE FIVE: STARDUST CITY RAG.A follow-up on “Naturalization.”  Federation citizenship cannot protect the xBs beyond Federation space.  Federation citizenship can’t bring back the dead.orif canon is going to give Seven some deep trauma, we’re going to at least give her a hug.Rated M for the body horror. Both the body horror and alcohol abuse are canon-typical for ST: Picard, but extreme by TNG or Voyager standards. As a hurt-comfort fic, all triggers will be marked at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Hugh | Third of Five & Seven of Nine
Series: The xBs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788940
Comments: 27
Kudos: 33





	1. Fractured

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers: alcohol abuse

The half-empty glass of bourbon shattered as it hit the wall.

“I’m sorry Seven, but there’s nothing we can do,” Admiral Janeway said, hands not moving from her own glass—her second that night. “If Icheb was still alive I would go out there myself, maximum warp. But we can’t pursue an empty quest of vengeance.”

“Icheb was a Federation citizen.” The words burned her throat, drowning out the bitter aftertaste of bourbon, broke like glass between her teeth.

Janeway pursed her lips, unmoving from her home office’s desk. “From what you’ve told me, Bjazyl ran to a planet with no extradition treaty with the Federation—one under the protection of a rogue Jem-Hadar squadron. We can’t pursue her without risking a conflict. And after the attack on Mars, we can’t afford a military excursion. Not even for Icheb.”

“Back in the Delta Quadrant, you said we never leave one of our own behind.” Seven blinked furiously. “Even dead, you said. Even dead.”

“As a captain of my own ship, far away from a superior officer, yes I had that luxury.” Janeway’s voice was quiet, as if even she didn’t want to hear the words coming from her mouth. “But now? An admiral can’t go galavanting across the galaxy no matter how she may want to. Not unauthorized. Not without dragging the entire Federation into this.”

_You never let authorization stop you before. You were always an individual—an individual among others. You taught me how to **be** that, I **became** that because I hoped—_

“You told me,” Seven swallowed, struggling to control her breath. “Back when we first arrived on Earth. That meeting at 0:800. You told me that with citizenship, we would become part of a larger crew. That we wouldn’t go down without the whole ship falling with us. Icheb has gone down. And the Federation has done _nothing_ but shine atop its hill. They won’t even authorize a _warrant_ against Jay.”

Janeway stood, walking around her desk to stand beside her. Her voice was gentle, as if to a child. “We have no proof it was her, Seven.”

“She was mining us for parts, it was in her lab, she—she saw us as walking artillery banks.”

“Seven—”

“No! Admit what happened! You promised me—” Seven’s voice broke. “You promised me joining the Federation wasn’t joining another Collective. That we would be people here. And yet they see Icheb no differently than the Borg did, than Jay did: as just another faceless drone. Without worth. Without kin. Without—”

_Without even the frivolity of a damned **funeral.**_

Her hand gripped the back of the chair so hard she could hear her joints scream.

“Seven...he had a family. He died knowing that at least.”

_But the magnanimous Federation never will._ That fucking paperwork flashed behind her eyes. **Next of kin: None.**

Her eyes met Janeway’s. “No, _Captain._ Admit the truth: he had a family, and they abandoned him. You’re leaving behind a member of your crew.”

Janeway moved to grip her arm. Seven shoved her back. “You promised you’d fight for us, the way you did for the Doctor! You promised!”

“I did fight for you.” Janeway’s voice cut through her like ice. “I fought when they asked for asylums for the ex-Borg, to categorize them as clinically deranged. I fought when the Federation Science Council asked for unilateral control of ex-Borg bodies. I fought when they proposed cloning drones for vivisections. I fought for Bjazel’s capture so ardently I got _banned_ from commandeering a starship for the next year and a half, and I have an official reprimand on my record. And every report on the ex-Borg I fielded, every damned proposal I shot down, do you know what I saw?”

Seven couldn’t bring herself to shake her head. 

“I saw your face staring out at me on every page. Do you know how hard it is to convince people that the Borg aren’t killing machines when the most famous ex-drone now lives as a vigilante? A hired assassin?” Janeway shook her head wordlessly. 

Seven opened her mouth to speak, but snapped it shut with the force of Janeway's next words.

“Did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t receive criticism for your behaviour? And did you think I didn’t know that Bjazel captured Icheb while he worked for the Rangers? Yourself a member, Seven, by all means. But Icheb? He had a promising career in Starfleet.”

“The Rangers bring order and justice to the edges of Federation space.”

_As you once did._

“The Rangers supplied a black ops mission to raid a Luna station just months after Mars. They cohabitate with terrorist groups opposing the very core of Federation ideology. In joining them, I questioned your judgement. In dragging Icheb in? You’ve forgotten everything you’ve become.”

Seven stared at her old captain. Through the sharp haze of alcohol, she tried to find the pillar of justice and community she once knew so well. The curiosity. The fierce loyalty that spanned lightyears in every direction, a gravity more undeniable than a star’s. The embodiment of the resistance she once believed to be so paltry, so cheap. The resilience incarnate strong enough to forge a human from a Borg.

Instead, all she saw was a stranger: a polished Starfleet Admiral stiff-necked in her high-collared uniform.

“Clearly, I’m not the only one who’s forgotten.” Seven said softly. One last time, she let herself become Janeway’s mirror—her face grew stiff and harsh as her former captain’s. “Remember, _Admiral_ : I never threw away my humanity. The Federation did that for me. Tomorrow, I rescind my citizenship.”

Heedless to the grief that shattered Janeway’s face, Seven left the Admiral’s house.

Janeway collapsed into her abandoned chair, glass crunching underfoot. To the closed door, she whispered, “I remember. I promised you both a home.”


	2. Two weeks earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: minor body horror during the flashback sequence.

_A lost Borg cube, floating in space. Rejected even from the Collective. Leaderless. Alone. What would that feel like?_

Hugh shook off the deja vu. He knew _exactly_ what that felt like. 

“And you want me to head this project?”

“In cooperation with the Romulans, of course. It is, after all, their territory.” Dr. Peregrin said.

Hugh stared at his comm screen. “Why me?”

“Months ago, you were recommended by a dear friend of mine—Seven of Nine.” The hologram smiled, clearly nostalgic. “Dr. Crusher and Captain La Forge seconded this recommendation.”

Hugh sat up straighter. “They are involved? Why didn’t they ask me themselves?”

“Seven is...otherwise occupied. Dr. Crusher and Captain La Forge are advisors for the medical and technical side of this project, but advisors only. Each is too crucial to deep-space assignments at the moment to be reassigned. As the next leading Federation scientist on Borg Reclamation, I have been tasked with helping to vet the personnel. However, as the Cube’s technology is incompatible with my own, I will not be able to supervise the project personally.”

The brief eagerness to work with his old friends died, leaving behind only the weary, wary cynicism. “You say this post is administrative in capacity. What exactly would it entail?”

“Most of it would be delegation, vetting Federation scientists, and advocating for ex-Borg interests. I’m sure you’re familiar with the last item.” Dr. Peregrin smiled.

Hugh nodded, remembering. He and Dr. Joe Medentis Peregrin (the hologram was quite insistent upon his full name) had worked briefly together after the synth ban, trying to save their own people from the aftershocks of bigotry towards non-organic life. They had managed to procure full citizenship rights for existing ex-Borg and holograms, but had failed to ensure that new holograms would be allowed personality subroutines. The fate of any new ex-Borg had been left undecided. 

Their collaboration had been brief, but in the time Dr. Peregrin had expressed admiration for Hugh’s methods—an admiration Hugh echoed towards the hologram.

“Perhaps most difficult,” Dr. Peregrin continued, “would be advising the doctors and therapists in their treatment of the ex-Borg. I understand you have no background in medicine, Mr. Hugh, but Dr. Crusher assures me you have a unique and valuable take on reclamation procedures. You must remember your own process?”

Hugh unconsciously lifted a hand to his left cheekbone. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I remember.”

_***_

_“Before we agree to this series of operations, I want to go over with you the procedure and expected side effects.” Beverley sat him down in her office on the Enterprise, taking her own seat at the opposite side of the desk._

_Hugh shifted in her office’s chair. It was designed for more flexible bodies than his, forcing his implants to dig into the top of his thighs, the back of his ribcage. “I’m listening.”_

_Beverley displayed a scan of his body on her monitor. “As you requested, we will leave your nanoprobe levels untouched. Instead, the limb modification surgery will remove your assimilation and extraction tubules, completely severing your nanoprobes from the outside world. You will experience some numbness in your hands for the first week or so, but that should fade quickly through a combination of PT and rigorous neural regeneration treatments. Within a month, you will have full function of your hands again. So far, so good?”_

_Hugh nodded._

_“The torso surgery will be more invasive. We will leave any modifications to major organ systems alone, focusing upon removing and modifying your exoplating to increase your mobility. PT will take longer because your muscular development occurred with these plates intact. My analysis indicates that you were assimilated as an embryo?”_

_Hugh sensed the question in the statement—for once not disbelieving, merely curious. “Yes. My mother was assimilated while pregnant with me. I was likely extracted and placed into a maturation chamber so that assimilation could occur instantaneously.”_

_Beverley nodded, making a note on her PADD. “Based upon my scans, we will have to leave the plating around your spine alone or risk major neurological and skeletal damage. That’s unusual, but necessary due to your age at time of assimilation. PT will take around a year, and even then I cannot promise you will get full range of motion in your torso.”_

_“Will I be able to bend over?”_

_“Yes, though not until about a month after surgery.”_

_Hugh smiled. “Then that will be fine. I look forward to touching my toes!”_

_Beverley laughed._

_“And we will leave the cortical implant alone?”_

_She nodded, instantly professional again. “Your brain was not fully developed when it was inserted. Removal or modification of the implant could be disastrous.”_

_Hugh hesitated. “And the eye?”_

_“The eye surgery is actually the simplest, and we’ll save it for last. Geordi has made you an eye that combines the features of your optical implant with the functionality of his old VISOR. We’ve already run the tests. The sensory and visual processing capacity should be nearly identical to what you currently wear. Any dizziness from the adjustment should fade quickly. The surgery itself will be comparably noninvasive—no rehab necessary, no scarring even. If we match your eye color, you’ll look perfectly normal.”_

_“No.”_

_Beverley sat back in her chair. “What’s wrong? I thought you told me and Geordi that you wanted a new eye.”_

_“I do. But…”_

_Hugh blinked back the memory of the others in his pod. The ones severed with him. Lore’s experiments: Tetra laid on a lab bench, with her chest cracked open like a grand piano, revealing veins and implants alike gleaming, slick with light and blood. And later, the Federation doctors Hugh had refused for himself, had let get too close to his people—the ones who started with the eye first, insisting that a full human gaze would redeem them in the public eye. Who tore the ocular implant out like a weed being uprooted from their skulls, flecks of flesh clinging to the wires like dirt. The ones who didn’t know where to stop, didn’t know of Lore’s tamperings, and had dared to modify the cortical implant, to treat a former Bolian with the same medication as a former Cardassian, to fail to trace back Lore’s new wiring and realize that altering nanoprobe levels now shut down half the brain…_

_Hugh blinked back the memory of the scars his fellow drones never had time to grow. Swallowed the guilt of procrastination, of insisting he wait his turn because the others came first, of selfishly wanting the chance to confer with the people who saved him before he bid farewell to his implanted parts._

_The words came out harsh, jagged and bitter on the tongue. “I don’t want to look normal.”_

_Instead of recoiling, Beverley leaned forward._

_“Your definition of normal—it applies to all other humanoids, the ones completely organic. But I,” (Hugh found himself gesturing to his chest, subconscious still savoring that word), “I am not organic. Would you tell Data to change his eyes to be more human?”_

_Beverely nodded slowly. “You want to look in the mirror after the surgery and see an ex-Borg looking back.”_

_Relief flooded him. “Exactly.”_

_She leaned back, eyes distant. “Completely different from other patients I’ve had.” She shook her head and met his eyes again. “If I’m honest, completely counter to my training. We have no procedures for half-organic, half-synthetic life. Our current literature views the implants as physical manifestations of the trauma of assimilation.”_

_Hugh grimaced. “I’m no doctor. I cannot give you new protocols.”_

_“No, but—” Beverley’s eyes gleamed. “You are one of the only authorities who can dictate this. There is no precedent for someone born a Borg. And there is no one else living in your body. There is no one but you who can say: What does an ex-Borg look like?”_

_“We could look like anything,” Hugh mused._

_“Perhaps. Perhaps a better question is: What does your version of an ex-Borg look like?”_

_Hugh flashed back to his pod. The answer came as if he’d always known it. “Scarred. With a ghost of the implant still around his eye. But—free. With skin that can feel the air. And—you know crow’s feet?”_

_Beverley nodded._

_“I want to be able to form those as I age. I want my eyes to move when I smile. Both of them.”_

_I want to remember. I want the memory written into my skin. But I also want...closure. An eye that can blink. A grin you can feel without following my lips. A voice that speaks even when my mouth can’t._

_The best of all worlds. Finally._

_As far as he knew, Beverley wasn’t an empath. But her smile was just as knowing as her eyes traced his left cheekbone and returned to meet his gaze. “I will see it done.”_

_***_

Hugh shuddered with the force of the memory, of the uncertain future. Slowly, he forced his hand back to his side.

_Could I provide that for other Borg? Give them what Beverly gave me, what was denied to so many of us: a choice?_

_Or will the Romulans forbid me the right to even that?_

_And if they do… will I be able to bear it?_

As he looked at Dr. Peregrin’s genial face, rendered small on the screen in his empty flat, Hugh missed Beverley’s warmth. Her constancy. The open mind that guided him through his procedure, improvising to his whim, validating the slightest instinct. How could he pursue this without her and Geordi? With only the absent voice of the Collective, that ringing hollow hunger, as his counsel?

Hugh smiled thinly at the Doctor. “I will need time to consider.”

The hologram nodded. “Of course. You have two weeks. Take care, Hugh. Peregrin out.”

The comm blipped away, leaving Hugh alone in the flat. Out of habit, his mind peopled it with the dead. The delusional. Those self-exiled even from the outcasts.

_And that’s here. How worse would it be on an empty Cube?_

Hugh went to bed, fighting the urge to block the Doctor’s line from his comm station. _Let another Federation citizen take up the mantle. Someone Starfleet. Someone with answers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: for anyone wondering, the Doc is insistent upon his full name because the Latin roots translate roughly to “Voyager’s doctor,” with Voyager as his family name. Joe’s just there for ease of spelling.


	3. Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: alcohol abuse

Three voicemails from Admiral Janeway.

Two text messages.

Another two from Chakotay. One from the Doctor.

Seven deleted them all, unopened. She reached for a bottle or bourbon, pressed its lips to hers, and drank.


	4. Resistance is—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: alcoholism.

The rain and a series of fists pounded on the door to Hugh’s flat. Hugh closed the detailed job proposal Dr. Peregrin had sent him. “Computer: identify intruder.”

“Seven of Nine.”

Instantly he sprang to his feet and propped open the door. Seven stumbled inside, stinking of wet leather and alcohol, face shrouded in a mat of tangled hair.

“Seven!” He shut the door. “What on Earth—?”

“Not for very long,” she slurred.

“Nonsense.” Heedless of the cold rain, Hugh draped her arm around his shoulders, grunting at the weight. “You’re drunk, not dying. We’ll go upstairs, sober you up.”

With difficulty, he guided her up the flight and to a leather sofa, where he let her collapse.

“You don’t understand,” she said, grabbing his elbow as he turned away. “You don’t understand.”

Derailed from the replicator and the anti-intoxicant, Hugh let her pull him to sit beside her. Chill rain prickled his arm, pooling on the couch cushion. “Then explain it to me.”

“I leave Federation space tomorrow.”

Hugh stared at her for a moment, then opted for a forced smile. “Ranging again?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” Hugh said cheerily, “no need to go hungover.” 

He moved to stand.

Seven grabbed his arm, voice suddenly clear. “No. I stay drunk.”

“Seven—”

“If I’m drunk I don’t have to see him.” She said it like a mantra.

“Don’t see who?”

The cry broke over him like glass. “You should know—of all people—”

The shove came out of nowhere. Even drunk, Seven could hit, but it was half-hearted, swinging blind. Hugh dodged and her punch grazed his shoulder. “Seven, Seven—”

She stilled at the sound of his voice, as if she’d forgotten who she was with. “In the Collective, you would’ve known,” she muttered.

Hugh froze. The light dawned, and it was like his skull had cracked open. “Icheb?”

Seven stared at him for a moment, eyes bloodshot and unseeing. She opened her mouth, and her strength evaporated off her tongue. Seven collapsed in on herself, choking on air. Hugh found himself catching her shoulder, propping her up.

“I can’t remember I can’t remember I can’t—”

Hugh wrapped himself around her, holding her upright like a trellis bracing a broken vine. Her face was hot against his chest, her breath frantic and clawing, but her hands cold, still fists. 

Gently, he found himself swaying in time to his heartbeat, as if to a half-forgotten tune. He held her that way until her breath steadied and she looked up at him—eyes suddenly sharp through inflamed lids.

“Assimilate me.”

His arms turned to lead. “What?”

She grabbed his hands, digging her fingertips into the raised scars where the old tubules used to embed. “Your last nanoprobes. Assimilate me so I can hear him again.”

Hugh led her hands back to her lap. “You know I can’t do that now. Beverley removed the implants in my hands nearly a decade ago.”

“You’ve become one of them.”

“No. I’ve become one of _me.”_

Seven pressed her face back into Hugh’s shoulder. Almost inaudibly, she whispered, “What if I don’t want to be one of me anymore?”

A vice closed around Hugh’s throat. His only response was to clutch Seven tighter, until he could hear her heartbeat past his own roaring through his ears. _Please understand—I can’t lose another—please I can’t—_

“I killed him, Hugh. I killed him and she lives. And they’ve all forgotten—I’ve forgotten. With every breath I’m killing him again.”

There was no answer for a statement like that. Hugh closed his eyes and felt the old terror rise in his chest—

_Resistance is futile Resistance is futile **Resistance…**_

His breath caught in his throat. Straining, he pulled Seven closer and cast his mind out. _Anything, anything—_

_**Resistance is futile Resistance is futile Resistance is—** _

—Seven’s breath, hot and reeking, against his neck. The cold leather of her jacket, studded with metal and raindrops, burrowing into his palms. The rain roaring on the rooftop, pounding _here here here_ with every droplet until he could taste the city in his lungs. Hugh let it in until it swept the last droning voice away. Until he could hear another sound lying beneath—a young man, laughing.

_Icheb._

Hugh found his voice.

“I will remember. For both of us, if I have to.”

_Don’t make me Seven, don’t make me._

The only answer was a nod against his sternum—a single beat counterpoint to his pulse, the raging storm. 

The Collective could be like that sometimes: a polyphony raining into the unlistening void.

_Resistance is—_

_not futile. Some day, someone will listen._

Hugh flashed back to the day he’d taken the oath of Federation citizenship. To that embracing chorus. The judge’s smile. He’d so hoped that the Federation would be that someone. That he’d close his mouth after the oath, and every word he uttered thereafter would be heard by an entity with galaxies for ears. The sky could fall, the sun burn out, his nanoprobes tear him limb to limb… and Starfleet would ride in on their gleaming steeds of chromium, bending space and time to save even a single soul.

_Icheb was Starfleet._

He’d once lost hope in the Federation—when he’d learned they’d used his individuality not as a gift, but a blight to harm his people. But even then, the _Enterprise_ had come…

_Icheb was Starfleet, and they’ve done nothing._

_Alone._ The thought lashed over his head, buffeted him blind. _Alone alone alone. Always._

He ran his hands up and down Seven’s shoulder blades, hoping to hear her voice, even slurred on bourbon and despair. She shuddered against him silently. Wonderingly, he realized she had fallen asleep, eyes crusted shut with drying salt and twitching in dream.

_Alone. Resistance—_

He let each syllable break over him, rocking him side to side. At first, it was just to stop the shaking in his hands from jostling his frame, dissolving him, disturbing Seven. In time it grew to a halting dance, a boat bobbing in the current, a chant emerging bone deep—grasping his ligaments and pulling itself out through his sinews, his mouth—

_Legion. Fifth. Sal. Wan. Una. Tetra. Icheb. Twain—_

The dead. The delusional. The outcast.

In her sleep, Seven pressed closer to him, unconscious lips forming the same names, adding more—

_One. Mezoti. First. Rebi. Azan. Icheb._

Swallowing his own tears, Hugh marveled. Her cortical node must have linked with his own. _Even now, a Collective. Two of many._

_We will remember. And there will be more of us, Federation or no._

As he laid Seven down on the sofa and fetched her a blanket, Hugh decided. Starfleet couldn’t be expected to save them, nurture them, mourn them. And as terrible as it would be to see their mistakes in person...it was worse, seeing them like this, seeing the holes and knowing he’d done nothing to mend them.

Starfleet couldn’t be expected to save the ex-Borg. Not unaided.

Tomorrow, he’d accept the Artifact position.


	5. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: body horror

Warm hands were cradling her head. A soft breath tickled her hair. She shook, burrowing herself deeper into the shoulder holding her upright. It smelled familiar: lavender aftershave, wet leather, and a slight tang of metal.

The world spun.

_That wasn’t right._

Seven strained her eyes open, blinking away golden light. A glance to the side: her mother’s face, eyes twisted shut, lips half-closed as she shushed her.

Annika was four and had stubbed her toe on the coffee table. Nothing more. Her mother’s shoulder smelled of warm cotton and ginger. It was firm, an anchor to the clinging four-year-old body, now blotchy and sticky from crying.

_I’m sorry. I tried to get back to you._

Her mother today wore large hoop earrings. As she pulled Annika closer, the earring swung, lightly tapping Annika’s left eyebrow. She flinched—not at the movement, but at the absent clink of metal on metal.

_I thought I wanted to be this again._

Another form knelt beside the two: a grotesque homunculus of clay and steel, long lithe limbs littered with straining bars of tritanium, ligaments glistening plastic in the gaps between her joints. Platinum hair. Familiar hands. Eyeless sockets.

The hands gripped her mother’s shoulders, shook her. _I was going to hold him like this. Kiss him better._

The twisted homunculus clutched her mother’s head, trying to force her gaze from the fallen Annika. _I was going to make you live again: in me. Blinking with my eyes. Healing with my hands._

The monster’s grip got more insistent, pulling at her mother’s cheeks, seeking her eyes—

_I was going to make him live again._

The fingertips, horribly human, found her mother’s cheekbones.

_I want to make him live again._

They wrenched her mother’s head up, pulling her away from the screaming Annika.

_I want to remember._

Tritanium-tipped nails peeled apart her mother’s soft eyelids—

_Look at me._

—clawing deeper, probing down—

**_Look at me._**

—raking across cheeks like melted wax—

**_LOOK AT ME._**

—meeting hard, wet bone.

**_Find me. I’ve lost myself. Find me!_**

Her mother’s head snapped up, throwing her back. Seven reeled, then stared up—

—into Janeway’s face, fissures lisping blood, uniform ripped and soiled, eyes…

...eyes gleaming mirrors, shattered and dim. In each fragment: Seven, reflected back, infinite pieces of infinite drones all flailing.

_I’m sorry._ She reached out to Janeway, straining forward. _I’m sorry._

Seven fell into the glass, into the fragments. Janeway’s voice reverberated in her head: _You need to find the one that’s Icheb._

Everywhere she turned, another drone. Each of them wore Bjayzl’s finest dress.

_I need to find Icheb._

One of the drones grabbed her arm. Earnestly she turned to it, to Bjayzl’s half-melted face bleached to parchment. _I need to remember._

She was pushed away with a sneer. When her feet found ground again, they guided her through the Cube, through the decks of _Voyager._

_I need to remember._

She turned the corner and ran, head first, into another Borg. She couldn’t see its face. Seven batted at it uselessly.

Hands pressed her into the drone’s chest. At first she struggled, afraid to be swallowed in its arms. Then she ceased as the smell reached her.

_Lavender. Leather. Metal._

Warm arms rocked her side to side, shushed her like her mother did. Closed her wounds with gentle fingers. A soft voice—she didn’t know if it was hers or his—murmured, _They have names, you know._

_I’m trying to remember. Everytime I do, all I taste is phaser fire._

With each sway side to side, he recited into her ear. She shook her head, protesting. _I’m not good with oaths._

The figure laughed quietly. _Neither am I. Join me when you’re ready._

He started again, and this time the words settled into Seven’s bones. Became names.

_Legion. Fifth. Sal. Wan. Una. Tetra. Icheb. Twain—_

Seven knew the next ones. As he moved to new names, she joined, reciting her own.

_One. Mezoti. First. Rebi. Azan. Icheb._

The two voices blended, harmonized in steady lockstep. Seven could see them braiding together in the air, weaving themselves upward into something stronger, something that could stand unaided. That could last.

Something that sang like a lullaby.

Still clutching Hugh, Seven stirred on the couch. Somewhere, the rain was falling. It didn’t need her. Didn’t wash away her filth. Didn’t regret.

But still, with many voices, it sang.

Relief flooding her, Seven sank back into Hugh’s arms. Into sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, she remembered no dreams, no oaths. Only a single word, thrumming under her tongue:

_Many._

_And I will fight for us all._


End file.
